All I Want For Christmas
by Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt
Summary: It is 8-yr-old Dick's first Christmas in the manor. Unfortunately, it is also his first since his parents died less than 3 months ago. So, what does one get a newly-orphaned boy for Christmas? Who better to figure that out than Bruce Wayne? Some Language. (#7 in the "Young Dick Grayson" series.)
1. Don't Want No Christmas

**Merry Christmas! This will be a multi-chapter short story (maybe 4 chapters in all), set after "The Cowl" and before "Father and Sons". It is the new #7 in the "Young Dick Grayson" series. Because this is the first Christmas for 8-year-old Dick after the death of his parents and the first in the manor, it might require a few tissues on the part of the reader to get through.**

 **Warning: Some Language . . .**

* * *

Bruce entered the kitchen to find Dick already sitting at the table, a plate of fried eggs, toast, and bacon quickly being devoured in front of him. The man had been wracking his considerable brain for over a week now and he still had no answer to the conundrum facing him. Lucius had given his advice yesterday. Unhelpfully, in Bruce's opinion.

 _Ask him_ , the man had told him and so here Bruce was. The dread that this time of year usually dredged up was battling it out with an unfamiliar rush of excitement.

Wayne Manor hadn't celebrated Christmas in last fifteen years. Not a hall had been decked nor an ornament hung in all that time. Eleven-year-old Bruce had refused to celebrate the holiday alone and that decision had remained in effect ever since. As an adult, he had found it necessary to attend his company's Christmas party each year, albeit for only the twenty minutes it took for him to officially begin the party with a short speech to his employees.

After Batman had entered the scene, Bruce would grit his teeth and attend one society party during the holiday for an hour or so, just long enough to ensure that everyone in attendance had seen him inappropriately smashed on eggnog. He would leave again with much fanfare, usually with one, or sometimes two, women on either arm and proceed to allow them to help him forget why this time of year was so unwelcome.

Girding himself, Bruce smiled as he made for the coffee. The unfamiliar facial expression wasn't quite as forced as it was normally. _Just ask him_ still ringing in his ears, Bruce turned toward his ward with determination.

Just because Christmas stirred up painful memories for the man didn't necessarily mean that it would for an eight-year-old boy. It was the first time the boy had faced it without his parents, true enough, but Dick has proven to be a resilient child, much more so than Bruce had been when in his situation. Ever since the breakthrough Bruce had made with him, the manor rang with smiles and laughter. Certainly, the boy would appreciate a happy Christmas to ease the pain celebrating without his parents would likely bring.

Dick was not Bruce, after all . . .

"Christmas is coming up soon, Dickiebird," Bruce sat across the breakfast table from the boy with his cup of coffee. "Is there anything in particular that you want this year?"

Dick's fork clattered harshly against the porcelain plate, startling both Bruce and Alfred who had been eavesdropping as he readied the master's plate. Dick stared at his remaining food with an unreadable expression, although it didn't stay unreadable for long. Pain flashed across the boy's face followed closely by determination.

"I don't want no Christmas," Dick whispered without looking up.

"I'm sorry?" Bruce thought he misheard the child. Where was his bright and happy child this morning?

"I said, I don't want no Christmas," Dick yelled through clenched teeth.

Shoving back from the table, he didn't wait to be excused but ran out of the room. The sounds of pounding feet as they ran up the stairs were loud in the silence the boy had left behind him.

"Oh dear," Alfred said, his shoulders slumping slightly. Sliding the eggs on the plate, Alfred carried Bruce's breakfast over to him. "I really wish you would have waited to ask him until after the boy had cleared his plate," Alfred complained, softly. "I do not like him to miss meals."

Indeed, Dick had only recently been declared within the lower range of a healthy weight for a child of his age and stature by Leslie after losing so much due to his grief. The boy's inability to eat had so upset the man that Bruce had been forced to add another twenty minutes to his workout to burn off the excess treats the older man had been keeping on hand. Alfred had resorted to baking as a way to tease the child into partaking a few extra calories throughout the course of the day. Anything that disrupted the boy's appetite tended to throw Alfred into a tizzy.

"Slightly less than half," Bruce noted, unhappily. He hadn't intended to upset the boy and, unfortunately, they had discovered that upsetting the boy usually translated into loss of appetite.

"Better than he would manage when he first came to us," Alfred agreed. "But not nearly as much as he needs."

Bruce set down his coffee and looked back at the older man. "I guess not much will be changing around here, after all," he sighed.

"I'm afraid I beg to differ, sir." Alfred set the boy's dirty plate in the sink with an annoyed clatter. "I refuse to allow Master Richard to miss Christmas. You will simply have to shore up your resolve and make it happen."

Eyebrows rising at the obstinacy in his butler's voice, Bruce sputtered. "But you heard him. Obviously facing Christmas without his parents is too difficult for Dick to handle this year. Forcing it on him would only be cruel. I've never known you to be cruel before, Alfred."

"It is not cruelty but experience I speak from, Master Bruce," Alfred told him. "I allowed you to avoid Christmas that first year, thinking I was being understanding and patient, however, what I really did was allow you to continue avoiding your grief."

Bruce frowned. "I was not avoiding my grief, I can assure you. In fact, I'm faced with it each and every day."

"Yes, indeed," Alfred continued undaunted, "and look how you have turned out."

Bruce choked on his eggs and reached quickly for his coffee. He turned an offended gaze toward his majordomo is disbelief.

"How is that?" he asked, strangled. "You speak as though I'm some sort of person . . ."

"Who dresses up as a bat and spends his evening thrashing villains and reprobates? You are merely proving my point, sir," Alfred responded dryly.

"And what point is that?" Bruce wiped his mouth with his napkin. "That I somehow lost my sanity because I found Christmas unbearable without my parents there to celebrate it with me?"

"Your words, not mine." Alfred wiped the counter with his usual efficiency. He folded the towel carefully and looked at his charge. "Master Bruce, you have not truly faced that grief but continue to avoid it by turning your considerable attention to routing every criminal that steps a toe across the line."

Seeing his charge open his mouth to defend himself, Alfred raised a hand and continued. "It is a worthy aspiration, sir, one that I applaud, and I count myself fortunate in being able to help you accomplish it . . . but it is not a healthy pursuit for a young boy to have, burying his grief the way you have."

"You keep saying I have not grieved but I disagree, old man!" Bruce burst out, his temper rising.

"The way you have gone about it, however, sir, is not healthy," Alfred insisted.

"Says who?" Bruce asked, scowling.

"The fact that you have not moved past it says it all. You have allowed your grief to define you. You have not permitted yourself a life beyond this obsession, this quest for vengeance."

" _Justice!_ " Bruce snapped. "Mine is a quest for _justice_!"

* * *

Alfred's shoulders slumped. Had he made different decisions all those years ago, Master Bruce wouldn't have found it necessary to risk life and limb on a nightly basis. He might have, even now, found love and a family. The young man he had struggled to raise was still just as stubborn and bull-headed as he ever was, and Alfred knew that his opportunity to put a stop to such a foolhardy quest had long since passed.

But it was not too late for this child. Richard Grayson would have a different outcome. This boy would learn how to live and love as Bruce never had. Perhaps God was giving him a second chance to rectify his mistakes this time around and that would start with one of the first ones he had made by allowing Christmas to lay forgotten and unobserved. And if, by helping this young boy, Alfred could simultaneously help Master Bruce . . .

Alfred stepped close to his elder charge and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Bruce," he said, watching as the younger man's attention was snagged. "No matter what that child claims that he wants, I guarantee you that if Christmas morning arrives and there is no tree up and no stockings hung, it will ruin Christmas for him forever. It will only encourage him to continue to hide from his grief."

Pain flashed in those deep, dark, midnight-blue eyes and then was gone. Had Alfred not been looking for it, he might have missed it entirely.

"You worry that he will turn out like me, don't you?" Bruce accused softly.

"Are you happy, Bruce? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that part of your life has been fulfilled?" Alfred asked.

The younger man stared at him for a long moment before closing his eyes. "You've made your point, old man," he muttered. Bruce looked at him again. "And you believe that forcing Dick to have a Christmas will change that outcome?"

"It is a start." Alfred let his hand drop away. "There isn't much time, however. You must determine what it is that the boy needs and give it to him."

Master Bruce looked back at him incredulously. "How do I do that when he won't talk about it?"

Alfred tsked. "Hardly a Gordian knot when tackled by the world's greatest detective, I would think. How hard can it be for _you_ to discover what it is that a newly-orphaned boy might want for Christmas?"

"I worded that incorrectly," Master Bruce admitted. "I know what he wants but it is impossible, Alfred. I'd give my fortune to give him back his parents. You know that."

"Of course, but perhaps the boy might be willing to accept the next best thing?"

The frown between the master's eyes was no longer one of anger but the one that he would wear when confronted by a particularly troublesome riddle. Although, this time with the Prince of Puns still in Arkham, there was only the happiness of one small boy that hung in the balance.

Alfred turned back to cleaning up the breakfast dishes as Master Bruce wandered out of the kitchen deep in thought. Alfred smiled, satisfied that for the first time in fifteen years, Christmas would return once again to Wayne Manor, satisfied that he had made the first step to making certain amends.

* * *

"Do you plan to be up all night?"

Bruce looked up from the computer screen where he sat in uniform but with his cowl shoved back. "I'm running the program again. I need to discover where Zucco is hiding, Alfred. I'm hoping that it will give me the most likely locations based upon the man's known history and the few clues that I've managed to uncover."

Alfred blinked in surprise. Batman had already completed his patrol an hour ago and it was already two in the morning.

"Did you find something?"

Bruce slumped in his chair. "Nothing definitive. But I thought to check at the top three sites the computer gives me."

"Surely, you're not thinking to go back out tonight, are you?" the older man inquired.

"Christmas is less than a week away, Alfred. If I hope to give Dick Zucco all tied up and ready to be hauled off to jail by then, I will need to devote all my time to it, every waking second," he growled.

"Sir, when I suggested you give Dick what he needs most, I was not referring to the man who murdered his parents."

Bruce glanced up from where he started at the data. "You said to give him what a newly-orphaned boy would want. I remember wanting the man who had taken my parents away from me found and placed in jail more than anything else in the world." He breathed out slowly through flaring nostrils, his eyes narrowing. "I still do."

This was what had spurred him onto the path to becoming Batman, in fact. The police cold case had laid on Bruce's heart during those intervening years and, even now, still drove him to don the cowl every night. His intent was to roust the criminals from their shadows and prevent another tragedy such as his to occur ever again. He had failed with Dick . . . The least he could do was find the man who had taken the boy's parents from him and ensure that this child found the justice that had been denied Bruce.

"Yes, I'm sure that Master Richard would like that very much," Alfred agreed, "but there is something else that he _needs_ far more than justice under the tree this year." He waited to ensure that Bruce's attention was riveted. "While his tragedy does, indeed, mirror yours, there are distinct differences as well. What gave you comfort, Master Bruce, during those few times that you allowed it?"

Bruce frowned as he turned over his butler's words in his mind. "But Zucco . . ."

". . . will be there the day after Christmas as well," Alfred told him. "If he hasn't fled the area yet, I doubt he will before then. Don't you agree?"

"He hasn't fled," Bruce said. "I'm positive that he is still in the area but has gone to ground."

"Then I would think comfort would take precedence in this one instance," Alfred told him as the butler turned to make his way back to the steps leading up to the manor.

Bruce stared after the man for a long time, even after Alfred disappeared behind the heavy door that stood between the manor and the cave. His eyes saw not the rough-hewn steps or the limestone walls, however. His eyes were turned inward as he thought back on the comfort of a child long since lost.

* * *

Bruce set down his suitcase by the front door and draped his overcoat on top of it. He made his way to the kitchen, uncertain of what his welcome would be after he announced his plans. He had learned a valuable lesson from the day before, however, and that was to keep those plans to himself until after Dick had finished eating.

The boy had eaten poorly for lunch as well yesterday, although by dinner his funk had eased enough that he had almost cleared his plate. Whether Dick had avoided him for most of the day or Bruce had done so, he wasn't sure. Whichever way it was, the two had not seen one another except during meal times. Bruce shoved away the guilt over the unhappiness that his absence would cause over the course of the next couple of days. The end result, he told himself, was all that mattered.

He just hoped like hell that Alfred knew what he was talking about.

"Good morning," Bruce greeted them with more cheer than he felt.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred chimed in merrily.

Dick looked up cautiously. "Morning," he spoke after swallowing a mouthful of pancakes.

Bruce ruffled the dark hair. His hand calmed the bedhead to an almost neat look . . . almost. It made Bruce smirk. In the time, Dick had been with them, Alfred had not been able to tame the child's hair into a suitable style. The butler had purchased more hair products in the last six weeks than he had for Bruce in the past year. Eventually, after Zucco had been caught, tried, and put behind bars, Bruce would take the boy to his barber and let Samuel have a go at it. In the meantime, Alfred would trim Dick's hair and continue in his attempts to mold it into some semblance of order.

"So, what are your plans for the day, Dick?" Bruce asked as Alfred set a plateful of pancakes in front of him.

Dick's eyes flew up to Alfred. "Alfred is teaching me algebra and then I'm learning about Mesotamia, I think."

"Mesopotamia," Alfred corrected, gently.

Bruce looked up in surprise. "Algebra? Mesopotamia? That's a little advanced, is it not?"

Alfred smiled at the boy in question. "Master Richard is quite advanced in his studies, you'll find, sir. His mother did quite a remarkable job teaching him."

"Is that so?" Bruce asked Dick.

Dick shrugged as he concentrated on cutting his pancake without sending his breakfast off of his plate and onto the floor. "I guess so. I don't really know. She just taught me every morning after our workout and breakfast. Then, after lunch, we would practice our routine before the natives started arriving."

Alfred made a face but didn't bother reminding the boy not to revert back to circus lingo. It was early days yet. Plenty of time to work on his speech.

"We might consider having him tested once that foul gentleman has been placed within the prison system, sir," Alfred said. "He seems much further along than what I would expect from a normal third grade education."

Dick frowned, offended. "Normal? I'm not normal?" he asked around a mouthful of pancake.

"Master Richard, please refrain yourself from speaking with your mouth full," Alfred told him. "No one needs to be treated to the sight of you masticating your breakfast."

Swallowing, Dick repeated his question. "I'm not normal?"

"Indeed not," Alfred said. "You seem to be well advanced beyond what the average education a child your age has received." At the serious expression that remained on the child's face, the butler clarified. "You are further along in your studies."

"Oh," Dick murmured but the frown remained.

"You are smarter than your peers, Dick," Bruce stepped in to assure him. "That's a good thing."

A smile emerged. "Oh!" the boy chirped happily. "That's okay, then." A large forkful of pancake disappeared into his mouth promptly after that.

Bruce took a large bite next and choked. He wiped his mouth quickly with his napkin as he swallowed hastily. He took a drink of coffee. "Alfred, I was under the impression that these were pancakes," he complained. At Dick, he asked, "How are yours?"

"Mine are really good," Dick announced after he took a drink of his milk. "What's wrong with yours?"

"I'm not certain," Bruce muttered dryly. He eyed his innocent-looking butler who was looking entirely pleased with himself. Bruce was immediately suspicious. "Alfred?"

"Pancakes and syrup are quite high in carbohydrates, as you know," the elder man began. "As one ages, one must keep in mind one's blood pressure and glucose levels."

"Alfred, I have years yet before I reach thirty!" Bruce exclaimed. "The labs from my last physical were excellent, my blood pressure was well within norm, and my glucose levels were quite reasonable."

"And I intend to see that they stay that way," Alfred insisted. "One cannot be too careful and what with all that extra stress that you place on yourself . . ."

"I think I'm good for it, man!" Bruce growled. "At least, give me some decent syrup to hide the taste."

"Oh no, Master Bruce. I hardly think . . ." Alfred started to say before he was rudely interrupted.

" _ **Get me the syrup**_!"

Alfred harrumphed but retreated to the counter and returned with the proper syrup. Bruce didn't bother with manners as he snatched the bottle from the other man's hand. He poured a generous helping, ignoring the face Alfred made in disapproval.

"Quit trying to push this carboard on me," Bruce grumped. "From now on, you will serve me whatever _**he**_ is having." He pointed a hard finger at the child sitting across from him. "I'm tired of going to work hungry."

Alfred sighed. "When one has a sedentary job . . ."

Bruce glared at him, incredulously. "Given the nature of my extracurricular activities, I hardly think I'm in danger of getting _fat_!"

When Bruce noticed the wide-eyed boy sitting across from him, Dick was staring at the two of them with alarm.

"Dick, what's the matter?" he asked him.

"Nothing," Dick said quickly. He dipped his head and pushed back from the table. "May I be excused?"

There was still pancake on his plate but he had eaten most of it. Bruce sighed. It was likely the best he could hope for. The boy's appetite was so finicky, coming and going with no real regularity.

"Before you go," Bruce began, "I need to tell you something."

If anything, Dick's eyes got bigger. The child sagged back onto his chair as he waited.

"I'm going to be leaving for a short trip," he told the boy.

Dick straightened up in his chair as quickly as he had slumped. "B-But it's almost _Christmas_!"

 _Interesting_ . . . _He hadn't wanted a Christmas yesterday_. Alfred appears to have been correct in his summation of the situation.

Bruce held up a hand to forestall any more interruptions. "I know, Dick, but I promise you that I'll be back before then. It's only for a couple of days but I need to go now. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return." He watched the child's reaction. "You understand?"

He waited until Dick nodded.

"Good. Then perhaps you can walk me to the door?" Bruce wiped his mouth and set down his napkin as he stood up. He held a hand out to the boy.

"Wait! You're going _now_?" Dick stared at the hand in front of him. " _Right now_?"

"You haven't finished eating, sir," Alfred reminded him.

Bruce turned his head toward the butler but his eyes remained upon the reason for this sudden trip, the boy sitting right in front of him. "I'll catch something on the jet."

The three of them filed out of the kitchen, he noted, with an air of men walking to the gallows. He dropped a hand on Dick's shoulder and squeezed it in a gesture he hoped was reassuring. Unfortunately, the boy took one look at the suitcase already in place with Bruce's coat over top of it and stiffened.

"No!" Dick spun around and threw his arms around Bruce's waist. "I'm sorry! _I'm sorry_!" he cried. " _Please_ , don't go!"

Bruce blinked in confusion. He didn't think the boy would be so upset by his little trip but, if Dick needed something special in order to get through this holiday and assist him in processing his grief, then this journey was necessary. He looked helplessly at Alfred.

A horn honked outside, announcing Bruce's ride to the airport.

"Alfred, would you let the driver know that I'm coming?" he asked the other man as he turned his attention back to the child clinging to him. Bruce tugged the boy's arms free, squatting down so that he could look him in the eye. "Dick, calm down, son. I'll be back by Christmas Eve, I promise. It is only a couple of days."

Dick's watery gaze met his. "I didn't mean it . . . what I said before!"

"I know, chum," Bruce tried to reassure him.

"Then, are you going because you're mad at Alfred?" Dick asked worriedly.

 _He thinks Alfred and I were really angry with each other_ , Bruce realized suddenly. Dick hadn't been at the manor long enough to understand that the banter and bits of sarcasm that often flew between the two men was always laced with mutual respect and affection.

"No! Of course, I'm not mad at Alfred," Bruce said, startled. "I'm not mad at either of you."

Bruce tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears away with a torn heart. How different Dick was now from the boy that had first arrived two months prior. Bruce hated to leave him like this but if what Alfred had told him was anywhere close to being the truth, then he _needed_ to go. Dick didn't understand now but hopefully he would later once Bruce had returned.

"I-It's just that everyone is leaving me!" Dick sniffled against Bruce's neck. "Mom and Dad, Uncle Jack and the circus, and . . . and now _you_! _Why does everyone leave_?"

"Sh . . . I'm not leaving you alone, Dickie," Bruce crooned to him, standing up and holding the boy in his arms. "Alfred will be here with you until I come back."

He walked with him towards the front door but was unwilling to take the boy outside, although, not simply because of the cold weather. Dick still had that damned contract out on his head and Bruce didn't want to chance the cabbie catching a glimpse of the boy. They had to be careful. If rumors got about town that there was a child at the Wayne Estate, Bruce's jet would not even get the chance to get airborne before reporters and cameras were lining the gate here. Dick's picture and his location would be all over the news should some photographer get lucky. With Batman unavailable for the next few days, Bruce refused to risk it.

Alfred reentered the foyer and Dick shivered in the sudden gust of cold air. He was not accustomed to winters this far north.

"I placed your luggage in the trunk for you," Alfred told him as he held out his arms for the boy.

Bruce transferred the reluctant child, handing Dick his now sodden handkerchief. He had another in his pocket anyway.

"Perhaps you could call after you arrive and get settled into your hotel, sir?" Alfred suggested.

"Yes, of course," Bruce agreed readily. "Did you hear that, kiddo? I'll talk to you on the phone tonight."

Dick looked at him with utter misery and Bruce felt like a heel. He reminded himself for the fifth time since he had announced his impending trip of the reasons behind it.

 _The ends will justify the means **this** time_ , he told himself.

"You'll be back?" Dick asked again as Bruce started to walk out the door. "You promise?"

After a hesitation, Bruce moved quickly back to Alfred and the child in his arms. He slid a hand along the back of the boy's neck and leaned his forehead against Dick's. Giving him a gentle squeeze, he met that amazing cerulean-blue gaze up close.

"I'll be back, Dickie," Bruce told him resolutely. " _I promise_."

* * *

 **REACTIONS? Poor Bruce . . . He's really out of his depth here, but he should get points for trying.**

 **I've been thinking hard about this story for a long time . . . I'm very curious as to what you think of it. ;D More to come . . .**

 **Btw, I missed you guys!**


	2. The Next Best Thing

**Warning: Language (?) . . . just in case. ;D**

* * *

Bruce looked at the rows of trailers that lined the sandy lanes of the mobile home park. The balmy breeze ruffled his hair as the pleasant sting of salt air cleared his sinuses. He had left his sweater and overcoat at his hotel as winter in the Florida panhandle differed greatly from the bitter cold and heavy snow of Gotham City.

He checked the address once more despite having committed it to memory. He was early but that could be because of the restless night he had spent had him rising long before the sun had. Dick hadn't wanted to speak with him last night when he had called the manor as promised. Alfred had tried to talk to the boy but, in the end, had been forced to apologize for him. The child had apparently spent the day shut up in his room, refusing to come out, even for meals.

Bruce wouldn't have made the trip, however, if he had thought it wasn't necessary. What the boy needed couldn't be found in stores and mail service was iffy at best this time of year. Bruce might have hired a courier but he felt compelled to do this himself. It had to be just right and to ensure that, he couldn't entrust the task to a stranger.

Besides, he really wanted to talk to Jack 'Pops' Haley, Dick's 'Uncle Jack', personally. He had only spoken a few words to the man the day of Dick's parents' funeral. At the time, Bruce had not yet become the boy's guardian and, as the child had not been allowed to attend, there was little reason to chat after paying his condolences for the loss of the man's friends and colleagues. Bruce had left, however, with the understanding that The Flying Graysons has been more than just an act in the show. Haley had been truly grieving . . .

And angry.

Angry that the system had not taken the perpetrator into custody and that arrangements had not been made for the child's safe attendance. How unfair that the child's only family were being interred without the boy's presence! It was a low-down, crying shame Haley had growled, red-faced and heartbroken. The circus had already stayed longer than they could afford to for the funeral and had to leave that very day for their next stop along their tour. The entire entourage had filed out without the opportunity to say goodbye to the child they considered one of their own.

Bruce walked up the lane ticking off the numbers silently until he came to the one he wanted. The home was small, he noted. Haley spent the majority of the year living in a space the size of Bruce's closet. This place probably felt like a palace in comparison. Stepping onto the porch, Bruce attempted to ring the doorbell only to find that it was broken. He knocked instead. He could actually hear Haley's footsteps through the thin walls as the man made his way to the door. The door creaked open. Did the man looked older than he had since the last time Bruce had seen him?

"Mr. Wayne," Haley greeted him, joining Bruce on the porch. "Let's talk out here, shall we? It can get rather stuffy in there once the sun comes up. The breeze is pleasant."

"Of course," Bruce agreed. He moved to one of the painted metal chairs that looked to be several decades old. It rocked under his weight.

Haley settled in beside him, rocking serenely.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Bruce began.

Haley waved the comment away. "How is Dickie?" he asked immediately. "Is he well? I take it that you've seen him. How is he . . . handling the loss of his parents?"

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances," Bruce told him. "It was difficult at first but he possesses astounding fortitude and is amazingly resilient. But the grief is never far from the surface."

"They never let me see him before we had to go," Haley told him bitterly. "Me! His own godfather! They claimed it was for his own safety but I always worried that he thought that I had abandoned him in his greatest need." The man hands tightened on the arms of the chair in obvious anger. "He belongs with us, the circus . . . with me! We care for him. We love him, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm very sorry," Bruce murmured. And part of him _was_ sorry but a larger part of him, the selfish part, was relieved that the boy had stayed in Gotham.

"Did they ever catch the bastard that was responsible for John and Mary's deaths?" Haley looked over at Bruce hopefully.

Bruce shook his head reluctantly. "Not yet. Zucco has apparently gone to ground for the time being but I assure you that every resource is still searching diligently for him. He _will_ be brought to justice!"

"They said he put a contract out of Dickie's head," Haley said, worriedly. "That was why he had been hidden away. Is he safe, Mr. Wayne? Do you know?"

"I can assure you he is well cared for and as safe as I can make him."

"You . . .?" Haley looked him right in the eye. "You didn't come here because you were in the neighborhood, did you? You're not just a concerned citizen doing a good deed by bringing news to the boy's extended family."

Bruce blew out his breath slowly. He probably should have explained more fully over the phone when he requested this meeting . . .

"No. My home is equipped with the latest in security, you see. Dick was remanded into my custody temporarily while Zucco is still at large. It was felt that he would do better in a private home than where social services had been keeping him," Bruce explained, not wanting to burden Haley with Dick's past trials. "He is completely safe with me, I assure you."

"Temporarily?" Haley repeated the word. "And what happens to Dickie once Zucco is found guilty? Where does he go then?"

"I'm hoping that he will continue to stay with me. I have recently petitioned the courts for permanent custody of Dick. I wish to . . ."

"You think you have it in you to be that boy's father?" Haley interrupted. "He ain't no pet, you know?"

Bruce blinked. _Why is it people keep telling me that_? he thought, remembering Lucius saying something similar. "I understand that but I think what I can offer him would be of value."

"Because of your money? Your social standing?" Haley frowned at him. "Dickie isn't _your_ type of people, Mr. Wayne. That boy doesn't have a materialistic bone in his body. He's a giver, you see . . . Not a taker. Your mansion and your millions mean nothing to him!"

Bruce narrowed his eyes. He felt his temper was rising but he held onto it. It was his own fault that his reputation proceeded him so well. At the time he decided to cultivate the rich wastrel personae, it had been to ensure that his identity as Batman would be protected. At the time, Bruce had had no intention of ever having a wife, let alone a child . . . Let alone a child without a wife! Only time and a carefully crafted change in his public life would hopefully convince people of his genuine intentions toward the boy.

"It is billions but who's counting," Bruce ground out through clenched teeth. "I was speaking as a victim myself. I lost my own parents at a young age to violent crime and I feel I know what it is that Dick is going through, having gone through it myself. I believe I can offer him an understanding unique to his own experience, something he is unlikely to find elsewhere." Bruce met Haley gaze. "The mansion and the money are merely incidentals."

"Your own parents . . .?"

"I was eleven," Bruce said softly.

Haley sighed and leaned back in his seat, the chair rocking slightly. "You have to understand where I stand, Mr. Wayne. I am that boy's godfather. His parents trusted his care to me should something happen to them and now I've had him snatched right out of my arms. I love that boy, sir, and if I can't fulfill my vow to his parents, I should at least know what is happening to him. I . . . I should . . ." He clenched his fist and closed his eyes, unable to go on.

"You expected to always have a place in his life," Bruce murmured. "The law is specific, however, about the boy's care. He must remain where he is as a ward of the state. The judge doesn't believe he can have a stable home life as part of an itinerant circus." He held up his hand. "My own beliefs are not the ones that have precedence here, you understand. It is my hope only that I can make his life better within the structure of the law as it pertains to Dick."

"Given your reputation . . . Yes, I am well aware of what is said about you," Haley told him. "All considering, do you think that the judge will grant you permanent custody of Dickie?"

It was something Bruce worried about himself. It was all still up in the air and could go either way. Likely, the decision wouldn't be made until after Zucco was captured, tried, and sentenced but Bruce had made a promise to the boy of forever. He planned to do his utmost to in order to keep it. That is why he had recently found Gotham City's premier family law attorney and put him on retainer. It certainly couldn't hurt to go to one or two parties and make a show of leaving alone and sober either. Just enough for Gotham's society to see the change in him even before they became aware of Dick's presence in his life.

"I cannot answer that at this point," Bruce answered reluctantly. "But I will be doing all I can in the meantime to show the courts that I've changed for the sake of the boy. I've gotten the best lawyer . . . It is my hope that the judge will believe my change of heart and allow me to keep Dick."

Haley speared him with a look. "Do you plan to adopt him?"

"I . . . I don't know," Bruce answered honestly. "I suppose that would depend on Dick himself and what he wants. I have no intention of replacing his parents but, despite that, for all intents and purposes, I would be stepping into a parental role. It would also depend upon what the courts feel is in Dick's best interests."

A rumbling noise was Haley's only response.

They were silent for a time, each lost a moment in their own thoughts. Seagulls cawed loudly and circled briefly above the trees. They were fairly close to the gulf shore, Bruce had noted the distance when checking the map. Three miles. Although this mission was of a personal nature, life and limb weren't riding on his knowledge of the surrounding area, and while no one knew he was here, Bruce still learned all he could. Alfred had even packed his costume. Bruce hadn't bothered to bring the luggage in from the trunk of the rental car last night, however. It was still there, in fact, inside the car where he had parked it under the trees near the entrance to the mobile home park.

Haley broke the silence first. "You said there was a particular reason for this visit, Mr. Wayne?"

"Indeed," Bruce nodded. There was a very important reason for this entire trip . . . He probably should have called Haley and explained everything before making the arrangements to fly down here but, truthfully, Bruce hadn't wanted to take the chance the man would have told him no.

"Christmas is the day after tomorrow," he began, hesitantly, "and Dick is understandably upset having to observe the holiday without his parents."

Haley rubbed a hand over his lower face and shook his head. "Of course. I should have realized. The poor kid . . ."

"He even went so far as to say he didn't want Christmas," Bruce winced at the memory.

"Oh no, the boy can't be skipping Christmas," Haley stated firmly. "It's his most favorite holiday. For him to miss it would be more than sad."

"Those are my thoughts exactly," Bruce agreed. He decided he wouldn't go so far as to tell Haley that those were his thoughts only after his majordomo had convinced him of it. The man didn't appear to be too sure of him as yet.

"And you flew all the way down here . . . for what?" Haley asked. "I assume it is for Dickie but you didn't bring the boy with you."

"No, it isn't exactly safe for him outside of my property right now and there is the fact that the law would not allow me to take him over state lines at this time," Bruce felt compelled to explain. "What I need . . . What _Dick_ needs is . . ." Bruce stammered unsure of himself, not for the first time since arriving here. It was a feeling that was unusual for him but becoming more commonplace since the advent of an eight-year-old child into his life.

Haley was no help as he simply waited for Bruce to continue. He had the feeling the older man knew exactly what he wanted to ask and was refusing to assist Bruce out of his misery.

"Mr. Haley . . ."

"Pops," Haley interrupted, "or Jack, if you prefer. No one calls me Mr. Haley."

"As I admitted to you before, I've been through this once already when _**I**_ was a child," Bruce tried again. "The difference between Dickie's and my situation was that after that horrible night, I was able to go home again. I was in familiar surroundings being cared for by a beloved family retainer. I cannot imagine how much harder this is for the boy being snatched away from the only home he's likely ever known," Bruce glanced at Haley for confirmation of this assumption. The other man nodded solemnly. "Away from people he loved and trusted like extended family . . ."

Haley didn't speak. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees, lightly clasping his hands between them.

"What I'm trying to say is that, while I would willingly, happily, give my fortune to give Dick his parents back to him, I cannot do that . . . but . . ." he sighed, "but if I could give him a piece of them back to him. He brought with him only a 5x7 photograph and a stuffed elephant and a Rubik's Cube with a couple of changes of clothing."

Haley's head came up. "He kept the Rubik's Cube?" he asked with a small smile. "I gave him that last summer."

"He said as much," Bruce told him, one side of his mouth quirking up at the memory of the place that puzzle toy had played in Dick's discovery Bruce's most vital secret. "The reason I flew here so close to Christmas to see you is that I had hoped to maybe present him with something that had belonged to his parents, something special to them."

Sitting up, Haley contemplated the man before him again. "That . . . that is very good idea, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce, please," he offered the other man as a peace offering.

Haley's booming voice had lost its sharpness over the course of the last hour. Bruce could only hope that meant that the older man no longer thought of him as an interloper coming between him and his godson. Haley pursed his lips before nodding his head, seemingly to himself.

"Very well . . . _Mr. Wayne_ ," Haley smiled as his way of assuring Bruce that the formality wasn't a rejection. "Everything that belonged to Dickie's parents now belongs to him. Unfortunately, costs being what they are for someone in my position, I'm unable to afford to keep up his family's traveling caravan. The small mobile home that they keep for winters I had rented to a new act as a method of paying on what few expenses were left behind."

Bruce frowned. "You had to sell their caravan, then?"

"Not exactly," Haley sighed. "I had planned to rent it out to one of our troupe members but selling it would have to happen eventually. I simply cannot afford to rent a place to store it nor the upkeep it would need . . . needs," he corrected, "until Dickie was old enough. I would have kept the money from the sale to give to him later. It will bring in a pretty penny for the boy, maybe help him to go to college someday." Haley smirked. "Now there's a thought."

"But that is Dick's home," Bruce murmured. He understood completely, however, the financial burden this placed upon Haley. "Jack," he said slowly, "I would like to offer to pay for the rental space for Dick's family's RV to be stored. For its upkeep, as well . . ."

"Now see here," Haley frowned back at him, "you think you can fly down here and just throw your money around! We may be people of modest means but . . ."

"I have more than enough, Mr. Haley," Bruce said, reverting back to the previous formality, "but this is for Dick. It belongs to him and I'd like to see that he gets the opportunity to claim it one day when he reaches his majority. You said yourself that you can't afford to hold onto it for him."

"I thought you said that you haven't yet been granted permanent custody," Haley argued. "What happens if the judge decides that Dick should be placed somewhere else, Mr. Wayne?"

"It wouldn't make a difference. No matter where Dick ends up," Bruce stated, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his chest at the thought, "I would make sure that he would get what his parents obviously would have wanted him to have."

Haley stared at him a moment longer. Bruce could see that he was a proud man but Jack Haley was also a practical man. Watching carefully, Bruce knew the second the other man made the decision to forego his pride and do what he knew was best for his godson. Haley stood up, and Bruce followed his lead.

"Okay," he said. "I'll take you over to where the caravan sits. It's been cleaned up some and . . ." Haley rubbed a hand across his neck, his face turning red. "You must understand that circus folk haven't a lot of things and we tend to . . . recycle."

Bruce raised an eyebrow and waited for the elder man to continue.

"Most of John and Mary's clothing has been distributed amongst those whom they would fit. I kept a few things back I thought that Dick might want one day, however. The people gave what they could afford. They knew the money would go to Dickie eventually." Haley explained as he moved off of the porch and turned right, further into the park.

Bruce refrained from making judgement, after all, Haley honestly believed he would never see his godson again. They walked passed several other aging mobile homes in various stages of disrepair, several of the occupants stepping out to watch the two men as they passed by. Bruce recognized a couple of acts from his night at the circus before tragedy had struck. The strongman; a family of little people that Bruce suspected worked as clowns; a woman in whose outfit was reminiscent of the circus' fortune teller, gold hoops dangled from her ears, her long black hair swept past her bottom in length.

"Does the entire circus winter here in this spot?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Some do," Haley told him. "Several others have a place another mile further down the road, closer to the animal habitats. The lion tamer, the elephant trainer, Heloise who rides the prancing ponies and her husband. The regulars never go far. We're like family. We stay close."

They passed the last of the permanent dwellings and in the field beyond were several RVs and mobile storage containers for equipment. Off to the right Bruce could see an orchard of what looked and smelled like orange trees.

"Do you own the land here or rent?" Bruce asked.

"A few of us own the mobile homes here but rent the lot. I rent the land each winter," Haley explained. "The owner is a retired circus owner himself and a friend of mine. It gives us a sort of semi-permanent base to call home during the winter months. Ah, here we are . . ."

Haley waved an arm at a Gypsy caravan resting beneath the limbs of an elm tree. Bruce blinked in surprise. It was quite lovely despite needing a new coat of paint here and there on the fading decorations covering the sides. The caravan was built of wood and looked to be handcrafted by expert carpenters and craftsmen. The top of the caravan was curved and there were several windows to allow plenty of sunlight. The door to the front was Dutch-style and as covered as the rest of the caravan in intricate and delicate designs.

"It's a _Gypsy_ caravan," Bruce remarked on the obvious. It stood out starkly from the other campers and motor homes that were parked throughout the lot. He saw a few faces glancing curiously at them from some of the other RVs. "I had thought it was like the others."

Haley smirked. "That there," he started, indicating the caravan in question, "was handcrafted by John Grayson's great-grandfather. It was passed down from generation to generation until this day. It was supposed to belong to Dickie one day. John and his father upgraded the inside to include a refrigerator and a few lights, and added a small generator to give them electricity to run them." Haley glanced at him. "I thought you were aware of the boy's heritage. Is that a problem for you?"

"Not at all" Bruce told him. He whistled in appreciation of the caravan's exquisite artistry. "It is beautiful!"

Haley pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door. Bruce stepped in and was surprised that he didn't have to duck his head. The curved roofline allowed for someone of his height to stand up straight without bumping his head. But his eyes were drawn to the décor and the excellent craftsmanship had continued inside the caravan as well. The woodwork inside was a blond wood with darker woods inlaid to create gorgeous, intricate patterns along the walls and across the support beams.

On the far wall was a window next to small bunk over a larger double bed. It took no effort to imagine Dick lying in that bunk and staring out at the stars at night. There was a tall compartment that lined the walls on either side of the sleeping area, one of which, Bruce imagined was perhaps a small storage area for costumes and props, perhaps. On either side of the cabinets were padded benches, one side was small, made for one adult, but Bruce thought would be perfect for a young boy. The other side, the bench was longer, enough so that two or three adults might fit.

Along one wall was a small, wood-burning stove that could double as a cooktop and took up the place of honor exactly center of the living area. Next to it was a tiny kitchen with a small dry sink and countertop. There were a couple of cabinets above and below it. A miniature refrigerator in its own cabinet was on the other side of the counter. On the opposite side of the caravan was space for a small upholstered chair and a rocking chair, creating a pleasant seating area for cozy conversation. Finally, to one side of the door was a built-in table that could be let down with two solid benches on either side. A lone, delicate, dining room chair was propped in the last corner next to a small bureau.

"He was conceived and born right here, you know," Haley interrupted his thoughts.

Bruce glanced back over his shoulder, a little startled. "No, I didn't know."

"We were on the road then, traveling across Nebraska on our way to our next show. One of the clowns drove the truck that hauled the caravan behind it while John and Juanita tended to Mary. Juanita is Madame Celeste, our resident fortune teller."

There was no way Bruce could allow this family treasure to slip away from Dick. His mind turned immediately to the arrangements he would need to see to before leaving the area. So many things would need to be taken into account but Dick would want this bit of his heritage back.

"I will leave you here for a while," Haley was saying, bringing Bruce's attention back to him. "I have a few things that I think Dick should have. I'm sure that others among the troupe would like to send him a little something to remember them by, if you could see that he gets them?"

"I would be happy to do so," Bruce told him. This would bring a bit of home to the boy and hopefully give him that bit of comfort Alfred had said was so important. "If they have the means to wrap them up as gifts, I will see to it that they make it under the tree on Christmas morning."

Haley smiled at him for the first time and shook his hand. "That would be fine, Mr. Wayne. That would be just dandy." Haley set the keys on the counter. "If you would lock up when you leave, I'll go see to the others. You can meet me back at my place when you are finished up here. I have something that the boy might like." He looked around the small home. "There isn't much, but everything inside here belongs to Dickie. Take whatever you think the boy would want."

* * *

With that, Haley stepped out of the trailer, the caravan creaked a bit and moved as he went down the steps. Alone now, Bruce returned his attention back to the space that his boy had called home for the first eight years of his life.

Stepping further into the structure, Bruce listened to the sound of the wood groan slightly with his weight. He tried to imagine what it must have been like helping to bring one's own son into the world. Difficult, messy, probably a bit frightening . . . but also amazing and, he was sure, beautiful. Oddly enough, in spite of the rich lifestyle that Bruce had lived, he found that for the first time he was envious of John Grayson's small family and the closeness that they had so obviously shared. As much as Bruce loved and missed his own parents, they had been constantly busy, and the opportunities for all three of them to be together as a family had been rare.

Shaking his head, Bruce rid himself of the ridiculous thoughts running through it. He had made the decision himself to never marry and have children. It was foolishness for him to regret that, knowing what his life had become. But it also occurred to him, for the first time, that if the judge could be convinced to grant Bruce's petition to keep Dick permanently, that he would, indeed, have a family again.

Taking a breath, Bruce began his methodical search of the caravan, trying to think of it as not the intrusion it was. His was a quest to give Dick a Christmas that would bring comfort and maybe some cheer. He had no doubt that it would bring with it plenty of tears as well, if Bruce's own experience was anything to go by. But, where Bruce's first non-Christmas had been filled with loneliness and silent but for the sounds of his own weeping, he hoped that Dick's would be anything but lonely and silent.

How his fingers found it, he didn't know. Must be muscle memory leftover from all those searches he'd conducted as Batman. The tiny panel popped free in the back of a drawer in one of the built-in cabinets. Bruce's eyes narrowed down at the contents. How long had these been here? The answer to that came to him immediately as did the knowledge of what to do with these tiny treasures.

Bruce straightened, glancing around the caravan once more. What else might Dick appreciate? He paused in his search as another thought struck him. A distant memory of another lonely, heartsick boy and what he had done for comfort. Decision made, Bruce chose one other item within the caravan to take back to Gotham with him. If he could not give Dick what he wanted most in all the world, then maybe, just maybe, he could give him the next best thing.

* * *

Bruce set the box filled with several gifts from Dick's friends into the back seat of the car. Haley was there when he turned back around. The older man was smiling and held out his hand. Bruce shook it, mildly surprised to find that his hand wasn't empty.

"I'm glad you came, Mr. Wayne," Haley told him. "And for what it's worth, I can see that you care for our boy. I hope you get granted that permanent custody. Dickie's a good boy but, if he's to become a good man, he'll need a father to show him the way to go."

Bruce blinked, Haley's choice of words startling him. He'd never planned to usurp John Grayson's place in Dick's life. He would simply give the boy a home . . . As Batman, Bruce feared little but the idea of becoming a father made his knees feel a little weak. He knew that stating any of this aloud to the man in front of him wouldn't be a good idea, so Bruce swallowed the whispered doubts and denials in his head and returned Haley's smile.

"You found what it was you were looking for?" Haley asked.

"I did, indeed," Bruce assured him. "I'll be back in the morning to pick up the caravan. I want to store it in a secured, climate-controlled building rather than out in the weather. I'll make arrangements to have it attended to each year until Dick's of age. I thank you for hanging onto it as long as you have."

"I'd do anything for that boy. Anything at all," Haley declared. "You won't mind if I'm not here tomorrow when you come. I . . . don't think I could stand to see the Graysons' caravan being carted off."

"Of course," Bruce nodded. "I can send you a copy of the key to the caravan and all the pertinent information on where it is stored in the mail in a few days. I only ask that you check on its condition when you come back to the area for the winter."

"You have a deal. You have a safe trip home, Mr. Wayne. It wouldn't do for our Dickie to lose anyone else anytime soon."

Bruce walked around the car and opened the door. "Thank you. You can stop by the manor anytime you happen to be in Gotham City . . . Jack. I'll make sure you always know where you can find him and how he's doing. With any luck, the judge will rule in my favor."

"You work on that reputation you have then, sir. I'm satisfied that Dick would get what he's needs with you." Haley stepped back and waved. "Take care of our boy, Wayne."

Bruce started the car, pausing only to look down at the item in his hands. Having an inkling of what it contained, he smiled again. _The next best thing_ . . .

As he started pulling away, he saw others walking to the entrance and wave at him as well. It didn't take any imagination to recognize the troupe despite their lack of flamboyant costumes. For all the oddity in their appearances, they were a family, Dick's family, and it was easy to recognize their love for him. Bruce waved back and pulled out into traffic.

Another thought had crossed his mind while visiting Haley, something he needed to speak to Alfred about. Despite Bruce's bank account, this close to Christmas, it would take something of a miracle for them to pull off. He turned off in the direction of his hotel once more. He had a lot to do yet if he wanted to be back in time for Christmas. Excitement was once again churning in his gut and for the first time in fifteen years, Bruce found himself actually looking forward to the holiday.

* * *

 **REACTIONS? Yes, I'm purposely leaving it a secret - for now.**

 **What could Bruce have found to give Dick? And Mr. Haley? Could this be a happy-ish Christmas, after all? Tissues might be wise though for the next chapter. Review and tell me what you think so far?**


	3. Christmas Morning

**Merry Christmas! Ho-Ho-Ho! Here is your Christmas present . . . There will be a chapter 4 coming in a day or two. Never fear - It is already written and uploaded. [The year in question that this story is set in is the year 2000.]**

 **Warning: Maybe Some Language . . .**

* * *

Dick woke up slowly. He clenched his eyes shut in order to avoid waking a little longer. He tried to pretend that he didn't know what day it was or that he wasn't alone in a strange house instead of the little trailer his family lived in during the winter months. His conscience nagged him a bit at the strange house remark and a little bit at the alone observation. Neither was exactly true. His parents taught him to never lie, especially to himself.

A sob caught in his throat and a lone tear slid down from the corner of his eye and into his hairline. His parents . . . His mom and his dad were gone and it felt like it had just happened yesterday.

Shoving his fist in his mouth to stay quiet, Dick let his eyes flutter open. It was still dark outside but not for much longer. The sky was a deep gray color that matched his mood. He breathed carefully, counting in and out in order to control his emotions. It was a trick he had taught himself while in the detention center after he had been beaten up for crying all night and keeping his roommate up.

The absolute silence was something new he had discovered since coming to live in Gotham City. It came with a new snow. He remembered the weatherman saying that a big snowstorm was on its way and how all flights were canceled because of it . . . meaning Bruce hadn't made it home last night like he promised. Sure, the reason was out of his hands but that didn't stop the anger and hurt Dick felt in his heart.

 _Bruce is Batman, darn it_! _He should have found a way home despite the snow_!

Another tear slid out to join the first and Dick used the edge of his sheet to scrub at his face angrily.

 _Stop crying_! _Crying is for wimps and losers_! _Crying is for babies_! Dick had already cried once in this house. Bruce hadn't condemned him for it but Dick was sure Bruce had just felt sorry for him. Batman didn't cry, after all. Dick shouldn't, either.

His nose was clogging up lying down so Dick shoved himself up and reached for the tissue box beside the bed. Blowing his nose helped clear his sinuses enough that a familiar scent tingled his memory. He sniffed and looked around the room for the source. With the sun still below the horizon, the only light to be had came from the Superman nightlight that Alfred had found for him. It still left a lot of shadows, however.

It didn't take but a moment for the round shape to catch his attention. Dick blinked his eyes. _That_ hadn't been there when he went to bed. Curiosity replacing the depression he had been feeling, Dick pulled back the covers and slid out of bed to investigate. The thick carpet protected his toes from the chill somewhat, enough that he ignored his slippers, as he padded quietly over to the dresser. The scent grew stronger.

Excitement churned in his gut as he reached out and plucked the ball from where it had perched. The familiar feel of the dimpled skin of an orange teased his fingers. He brought the fresh fruit up to his nose and allowed the citrus tang to overtake his senses. It was the scent of Christmas to Dick. Oranges plucked fresh from the grove behind their trailer always graced the table at breakfast for every Christmas that Dick could remember.

"How?"

The sound of his voice seemed to draw Dick back to the present and he glanced around at the bedroom he had been assigned when he had arrived at Wayne Manor. He walked barefoot over to the window next and climbed up onto the window seat. Even in the pre-dawn hours, there was enough light emerging from the sky to see that everything had been coated in a fresh layer of snow. Gotham City lit the low-hanging clouds and reflected it down onto the landscape. The lawn and garden beyond his window looked smooth and pristine in its blanket of white. The hedgerow that made up the maze was capped with it.

The urge to run through the snow and leave his mark was strong but Dick knew that Alfred would have a fit should he leave the house while it was still dark . . . and before breakfast. Which had him glancing back at the orange in his hand. It was almost as large as a grapefruit. Oranges like this he had only ever seen in Florida.

So, how did it get to Gotham? Better yet, how did it get into his bedroom.

Dick opened the door to his room, looking in the direction of the master bedroom. Was Bruce back? Had he arrived sometime after Dick had gone to bed? How else did the orange get into his bedroom?

Dick tiptoed to the double door and rested his hand on the doorknob as he leaned his ear against the heavy wood panel. No snoring . . . Biting his lip, Dick quietly turned the knob and cracked open the door enough to poke his head through. Luggage was set off to one side of the room and there was a suspicious lump under the covers.

 _He's back_! _Bruce came back_!

"Don't just stand there in the doorway, staring. That's rude," came a deep rumble from beneath the blankets. "Come in and let me see how much you've grown while I was gone."

His earlier upset was forgotten as Dick rushed the bed. Large hands shot out from beneath the covers as Bruce grabbed Dick up and tossed him on the bed lightly, groaning as if he had just lifted five hundred pounds rather than fifty-seven. Dick's boisterous laughter exploded like a cannon as he bounced twice. Bruce pushed himself up and glanced at the bedside clock with bleary eyes.

"Five-thirty? Why are you up so early?" he groaned.

"I couldn't sleep anymore," Dick told him. "When did you get in?"

"Eleven-thirty last night," Bruce yawned and stretched. At the end of the callisthenic, he held his arms wide. "Do I get a hug?"

Dick grinned and threw himself into Bruce's arms. He buried his face in the man's pajama top and breathed deep the scent of sandalwood, laundry detergent, and Bruce. It was a smell Dick was quickly beginning to associate with safety. Today, however, it was tinted with a hint of citrus and Dick was reminded of his recent find.

"I thought that maybe the storm would have kept you away," Dick said as he pulled back.

"I made you a promise," Bruce told him. "So, my pilot did a little rerouting and some fancy flying to make it here. He's been fined and grounded for a while because of it. I paid his fine, however, and gave him a bonus to make up for it, though."

Dick's eyes widened at the news. "Really? You did that for _me_?"

Bruce smiled and ruffled the boy's hair playfully. "That and a lot more, kiddo! It was worth every cent it cost me."

"Wasn't it dangerous, though?"

Bruce winked and leaned forward to whisper in the child's ear. "Yes, but I'm Batman."

Dick stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. "I forgot for a minute," he exclaimed. He held up the orange. "Did you put this orange in my room last night?"

Bruce relaxed back against his pillows. "Maybe I did," he answered mysteriously. "Or maybe it was Santa."

Dick tilted his head to the side with an odd look on his face. "Santa? Do you believe in Santa Claus, Bruce?"

"Don't you?"

Dick wanted to believe in Santa Claus but he had been having suspicions ever since one of the older boys had told him that jolly old elf didn't actually exist last year.

"I heard that he was a myth," Dick said cautiously, watching his guardian's expression.

Bruce looked vaguely surprised. "Well, a lot of people seem to believe that Batman's a myth as well . . ." he allowed his voice to taper off.

Dick blinked at him. "But Batman's no myth!"

Bruce was silent, waiting.

"Santa is _real_?!" Dick gasped aloud.

Bruce winced but remained quiet. Dick glanced behind him at the open door and the hallway beyond . . . The same hallway that led downstairs and to the . . .

"Oh!" Dick slumped a little. They had no Christmas tree. And he was in a totally new place. If Santa really did exist, he wouldn't be able to find him and if he did, would he be willing to stop by a house that had no tree? But they never really had a tree before either. Their trailer was much too small to have a tree of any size.

His parents would usually find a tiny tabletop tree that they would decorate with popcorn and a construction paper chain. Sometimes his mother would pull out her earrings, the dangly ones, and they would hang them up like ornaments. She only had three pair, costume jewelry all, but that was all they needed with a tree that small to add a bit of sparkle.

On Christmas Eve, they would open a present for each of them, something they needed. For Dick, it was usually a new pair of shoes or some article of clothing and then, on Christmas morning, Dick would always find a toy or a book left behind by Santa . . . Or at least that was what his parents had always told him. Last year, had been a basketball and he found himself wondering where it was now. How weird was it to be thinking of Christmas when his parents weren't here to enjoy it with him?

"What's the matter, chum? I would think you would be excited to see what Santa brought you." Bruce asked him as he got up and grabbed his robe.

"But I told you and Alfred that I didn't want Christmas this year. We don't have a tree," Dick shrugged. He handed Bruce the orange. "It's okay. I meant what I said. I'll go back to bed so you can get some more sleep."

"Oh, no you don't," Bruce interrupted. "You got me up, so now you will have to come downstairs and entertain me."

"But . . ."

"No buts," Bruce declared, hauling the boy off of his feet and over his shoulder. "You've woken the Bat, now pay the consequences!"

Bruce took off at a jog, bouncing the boy lightly until Dick started giggling again. He was halfway down the hall when Dick kicked off and escaped Bruce's hold. He landed on the floor and took off running back up the hall, glancing behind him with a grin.

As Bruce realized the game the boy wanted to play, he sprinted after him, his longer strides eating up the distance in seconds. Dick squealed when he saw how quickly Bruce was gaining. Instead of attempting to go into his room, however, Dick ran up the front of his door and flip up and over Bruce's head. Bruce's fingers just missed him when the man spun on his heel to grab for him. Dick was off the second his feet touched the carpet and they both headed back in the direction of the stairs once more.

"I'm going to catch you," Bruce called out.

Dick leapt on the bannister without hesitation and slid down the polished handhold as if they were both greased, he then flipped off the end with an impressive two somersaults. Bruce ran down the stairs, taking three and four steps at a time. With a yelp, Dick took off once more.

"Kitchen first," Bruce reminded him, laughingly.

Dick nearly lost his footing on the marble tile as he changed directions at the last minute and scrambled towards the kitchen as Bruce had instructed. A second later the two of them barged through the door, yelling 'Merry Christmas' to Alfred at the top of young lungs.

"I hope we didn't startle you, Alfred," Bruce asked as he caught up to Dick and swung him up onto his shoulders.

Alfred smiled warmly at the two, for once not chiding them for rough-housing inside the manor. Dick had been moping for two days and both men feared he would be upset this morning, his grief preventing him from enjoying the holiday. Seeing him laughing and smiling was like watching the sun come up.

"Happy Christmas, Master Bruce, Master Richard," Alfred greeted cheerfully. "As a matter of fact, I had plenty of time to prepare for your entrance as it sounded like a herd of wild rhinoceroses were stampeding through the manor this morning. If you would care to have a seat in the dining room, breakfast is nearly ready."

"Aw, can't we eat in here this morning, Alfred?" Dick whined from his position. "Please?"

"That would be 'may we', Master Richard, and it is Christmas morning," Alfred corrected gently. "It would be proper to take a holiday meal in the dining room."

"But we take most of our meals in the dining room. I like eating in here," Dick complained, "with you!"

"Dick has a point, Alfred. Meals, today, should be taken as a family," Bruce agreed. "That means you should sit down with us this time."

"Oh, I say, that would hardly be proper," Alfred returned.

"Yeah, yeah, please, Alfred?" Dick begged.

"Please?" Bruce added with a grin of his own.

The butler rolled his eyes at the two of them. "Oh, very well, but know that it is under protest," he complained. "Imagine if servants sat down with their employers all over the world. It would be chaos! Sheer madness, I tell you," he grumbled as he pulled out a pan from the oven.

Bruce sat Dick down at the kitchen table. "You must be very special," he stage-whispered to the boy. "I could never talk him into sitting down and eating with me while growing up."

"It is utterly ridiculous," Alfred continued as he laid out plates for them. "What is the world coming to? Why, next thing you know, you'll be answering the door or the phone on your own and then where will I be? You'd have no need of me, then, and I'd be out the door without even a by your leave . . ."

Bruce winked at Dick as Alfred set out glasses filled to the brim with milk.

"I doubt it is quite that bad, Alfred," Bruce chuckled. "I'm sure that your sitting down to breakfast with us will not cause the collapse of the free world."

Alfred filled Bruce's coffee cup and then brought back a platter with steaming orange-pecan cinnamon rolls and a tiny pitcher of sweet icing to drizzle over it.

"Tis unseemly, sir, the servants fraternizing with their employers," Alfred fiddled until there was nothing left to do but sit down himself.

"You're not an employee, Alfred," Dick declared. "You're family!"

Alfred's lips lifted at the sentiment despite himself and he looked at their youngest member. "Is that so? And what part of the family would I be, Master Richard?"

Dick hesitated, glancing uneasily at Bruce and then back to Alfred. He scowled as he thought about it for a moment and then suddenly his face cleared as the answer came to him.

"You're the mother," Dick announced confidently.

Alfred blinked and looked at Bruce as the younger man guffawed.

"You have to admit, when you really think about it, Alfred, Dick's right," Bruce said once he found the breath to speak.

Alfred raised an eyebrow and huffed. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold," he told them both as he spread his napkin over his lap but he was grinning as he did it.

* * *

Bruce followed Dick into the living room next when suddenly Dick stumbled to a halt in shock. To keep from running into the child, Bruce was forced to scoop the startled boy up into his arms, nearly tumbling over one of the upholstered chairs in the process. He allowed himself to fall into the chair with Dick on top of him.

"What the heck, Dick?"

Bruce rolled to his feet and looked down to see the child's stunned expression. Dick was staring at the tall tree that hadn't been there when he went to bed. It was decorated within an inch of its life and lit up in an extravagant show of lights. It was like the Las Vegas strip had come to live in Bruce's living room, all tucked inside the branches of a fourteen-foot evergreen tree.

Dozens of presents were piled beneath the tree. Several were done up in festive paper with impressive bows but the rest were wrapped more humbly in newspaper or fabric or brown butcher paper with 'Merry Christmas, Dickie' written on it with magic markers and tied up with simple string or hair ribbons.

Unlike the rest of the house, that was a bit chilly, the living room was warm and toasty with a fresh fire crackling merrily in the fireplace just beyond the tree. Three stockings were hung along the mantle, held in place with a set of statues of Santa's sleigh and his reindeer. The room was filled with the scent of pine boughs, peppermint, and more oranges; the fruit piled in a festive holiday bowl in the center of the coffee table.

"H-How?" Dick stammered. He spun around to gape at Bruce. "This wasn't here last night! How did you do this?"

"Christmas magic, chum," Bruce smiled as he plucked the overwhelmed boy up and settled him on his hip.

Dick caught his breath and hugged his guardian for all he was worth. "I-It's so pretty," he hiccupped. "There are so many lights!"

"I was assured, by someone in the know, that the more lights the tree has, the better it is," Bruce hugged him back, "and it's only the best for you, kiddo!"

"Me? But I told you that I didn't want . . ."

"I know what you said, but you see I've been in the same place as you before," Bruce told him as he walked over to a chair near the fire and settle down with the boy on his lap. "I didn't want Christmas that year, either. Alfred gave me my way then, and . . . well, Christmas was never celebrated here again after that. Trust me, Dickie, ignoring it didn't make the holiday any easier to face. If anything, it only became harder and harder to deal with over the years. I didn't care for the person I became as I grew up and some of that was because I let Christmas go by without acknowledging it."

Dick looked up at him, a serious expression on his face. "But you are _Batman_ ," he whispered. "You're a _hero_! You save people's lives and stop bad guys. How could you not like that?"

Bruce sighed. "Dick, in case you didn't notice, Batman isn't a very cheery sort of hero. He _scares_ people, chum."

"Only the bad guys," Dick insisted, coming immediately to his defense. "I wasn't scared of you!"

"As I remember it, you ran from me the second you saw me in costume," Bruce pointed out.

"That's not fair," Dick mumbled. "I didn't know who you were right then."

"The trouble is that I'm not that cheery of a person even out of costume, chum," Bruce admitted slowly. "Alfred and I weren't especially happy before . . ." When Dick tilted his head in confusion, Bruce clarified. "There was no laughter to be heard in this house until you came here to live with us. You brought all that with you."

"So," Dick began slowly as he turned his head to take in the holiday decorations, "you and Alfred did all this for me?"

"I didn't want that for you, son," Bruce told him truthfully. "I don't want you to grow up being a . . . a Scrooge at Christmas time." Bruce thought about the name he had overheard his employees call him countless times over the years. It wasn't that Bruce wasn't generous, he was. It was that he worked through the holidays, and if Bruce worked, his employees were expected to also. "I don't think your parents would be very happy with me, either, if I let that happen."

Tears filled Dick eyes but didn't spill. "I miss them," he whispered miserably. "It's just that . . . Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas without them here with me."

"I know," Bruce set his chin atop the boy's head as they sat there quietly for several minutes. "I know and I'm so sorry."

Dick swallowed thickly. He couldn't believe that Bruce and Alfred went out of their way to do this for him. It was their first Christmas in a long, long time and Dick didn't want to ruin it for them by being sad, but . . . he _missed_ his mom and dad. Somehow, it didn't seem right to enjoy the holiday without them.

But Bruce had told him that they would want him to be happy, that their deaths wouldn't change their dreams and expectations for him. Would it make them sad if Dick refused to be happy? Thinking of Bruce and Alfred being unhappy all these years was kind of sad, too. Did Bruce's parents not like what they saw when they looked down from heaven? He could imagine his own parents being upset should Dick waste the life they had given him by being unhappy all the time.

Biting his lip, he sat up and looked at the room again. It really _was_ pretty.

"You know, Mom would have thought that was the most beautiful tree in the whole world," Dick said. He smiled, if a little sadly. "She liked shiny, sparkly things. That's why she sewed sequins onto our costumes. Dad said it helped the audience see us better, but Mom said she just like how they sparkled in the lights."

Dick slid off of his lap as Bruce stood up and walked over to the tree. Bruce pointed to a particular ornament.

"My mother bought this one the year I was born, or so Alfred tells me," Bruce told him. His finger traced the letters that were etched into the delicate glass as Dick read it. "Bruce Thomas Wayne, First Christmas, December 25th, 1975."

Dick stood there for several minutes exploring the tree's decorations when he finally noticed it. There, front and center, was another glass ornament, this one blue. His eyes widened as he read the words etched upon it.

"Richard John Grayson's First Christmas, December 25, 2000." Dick blinked and looked up. "But I wasn't born this year," he announced logically.

"It isn't for the year that you were born, Dick. It represents your first Christmas here, in Wayne Manor . . . with us, Alfred and me." Bruce squeezed his shoulder gently. "I'm hoping it will be the first of many."

Dick's lips eased up into a shy smile and he leaned against Bruce's side. "I think I would like that, too."

"Forever?" Bruce asked with a wink and the boy's smile widened onto a grin.

"It certainly smells like Christmas," Dick announced. He looked down at the odd assortment of presents. "Where did all of these come from? Is that where you went? To go shopping for presents? Why couldn't you buy them from a store here? Gotham City has to have hundreds of stores, thousands even!"

"Because none of them had what I was looking for," Bruce told him.

Alfred's voice broke into the conversation at that point. "Perhaps you might sit down and open them?" he suggested as he entered behind them.

Dick bit his lip but the sparkle Bruce saw in his eyes didn't come from tears this time. Bruce pulled the chair a little closer and sat down as Dick practically dove beneath the tree. When he didn't come out right away, Bruce leaned down and tugged at his pant leg.

"Hey! What's the hold up?"

Dick's voice floated up out from beneath the tree. "I don't see any in here for you or Alfred. They all have _my_ name on them."

Alfred turned on the stereo and Christmas music filled the air. "I assure you, Master Richard, there will be a gift under there for everyone. You might have to open some of yours first in order to help us find them."

Dick pulled out several and picked the humblest of the batch to begin with. Alfred handed him some scissors to assist with the string. In a few seconds, the paper was pulled away to reveal red clown nose. He squeezed it and it honked at him. Dick started, staring at it for a minute before discovering the writing on the inside of the brown wrapping paper.

"' _Always be grateful for laughter . . . Unless milk comes out of your nose_. _Then you should be grateful for napkins_.' ~ Reuban," Dick read aloud. He gasped and looked up at Bruce. "W-We had a clown named Reuban at the circus. He was my favorite because he was the same size as me! Bruce, how did you . . .?"

"Open another one, Dickie," Bruce encouraged gently.

Dick lifted another of the presents from the pile and opened it slowly, almost reverently. This one turned out to be a large bell that took up most of Dick's lap.

"Oh, I say, what is that?" Alfred asked him.

"It looks just like the bell that topped the High Striker game that we had at the circus," Dick answered, scowling at the bell in confusion.

"Isn't that the game where you test your strength by hitting the machine with a hammer in order to ring the bell at the top?" Bruce asked next.

Dick set the bell aside and lunged toward the wrapping paper again. He snatched it up and sure enough, he found writing there also left for him by the gift-giver.

" _'Let yourself love, short stack. It is in your ability to love others that you find your greatest strength_.' ~ Josiah. _Josiah_! That's our strongman!" Dick leapt to his feet. "Bruce!" Dick threw his arms around his guardian's neck. " _You_ did this! You went to Uncle Jack, didn't you? That's where the orange came from . . . and all these presents!" The tears were back. "You brought me my friends!"

* * *

Bruce held the boy as he sobbed against his shoulder. He glanced over at Alfred with a worried look on his face. He hadn't meant to make the boy cry! This was supposed to be a happy Christmas. If Dick lost it after seeing a few small gifts from members of his circus, how would he react to the ones that Bruce had brought him that had belonged to the boy's parents?

Alfred, however, was smiling and nodded his head. He seemed pleased at Dick's outburst, as though he had been expecting this.

Bruce scowled at him. The man could have given him a little warning that Dick would react this way. Bruce had expected a much milder reaction, a tear or two and then a heartfelt smile, perhaps. Dick hadn't broken down like this since the night that Bruce had saved Dick from the wolf a couple of weeks ago.*

The boy had been almost stoic in light of all that had happened to him these past few months, only shedding a tear here or there. A sniffle or a wobbly chin was often all that marked an emotional moment since Dick had come to stay with them. Honestly, Bruce had found himself grateful that he hadn't been forced to comfort an inconsolable child, counting himself lucky at discovering Dick's rather amazing fortitude. Lucky, that is until now.

 _Was this a good thing or a bad thing_? Bruce wondered, because he was beginning to get a little worried when the sobs didn't stop after the first minute or two. Leslie would probably say it was a good thing but Bruce much preferred smiles and laughter to tears.

* * *

When Bruce handed him his clean handkerchief, Dick blew his nose obediently. He pulled back, feeling a little embarrassed by his outburst.

"Sorry," he mumbled with his head down.

"No one will ever scold you for crying, Dick," Bruce assured him.

Dick personally thought the man looked a little relieved, however, that his crying jag had ended.

"You found the circus," Dick repeated. "That's where you went, wasn't it?"

"I thought Christmas might be a little easier to get through if you had a few bits of home," Bruce admitted. "Did it work at all or did I just make a mess of things?"

"No," Dick told him. "You're doing okay. You're still the World's Greatest Detective."

Bruce barked a laugh, surprised. "Where'd you hear that?"

Dick smirked but his eyes landed on Alfred.

"There was no reason to hide your light under a bushel, sir," Alfred said, candidly. "Everyone says it, and the boy already knows all your secrets. Although, if you're not careful, Master Richard might usurp your title. He's quite the little detective himself."

"You think so?" Bruce considered the boy in front of him seriously. "What say you, Dick? Would you like to try your hand at detecting?"

"You mean I can do what you do?" Dick perked up at that idea.

"I meant more along the lines of helping me to sort clues and work some of the lab equipment downstairs in order to solve cases," Bruce clarified. There was no way he would be taking an eight-year-old child out into the streets to fight criminals. That would be crazy!

"I could work some of the equipment?" Dick asked, his earlier excitement returning.

"With supervision." Bruce nodded at the presents still left to open. "Why don't you finish opening the gifts your friends sent you first?"

Dick sniffled and nodded. The shock past, he moved back to his spot in front of the Christmas tree and picked up the next item.

It went like this for the next hour, Dick having to stop for a moment to get his emotions back under control every so often before continuing. Each present had a hand-written note from whichever of the troupe it had come from and the gift itself a reflection of the performer's craft. The most interesting and beautiful of all came from Juanita, the circus' fortune teller. She had sent Dick his very own deck of tarot cards with a separate note inside that was just for his eyes.

Alfred plucked the wrapping paper off of the floor and smoothed them out, stacking them up. They all contained words from Dick's friends and he knew the boy would want to preserve them.

Dick eventually found a present for Alfred and handed it to him and one for Bruce. Alfred opened his to find a rare first edition of William Shakespeare's 'Comedies, Histories and Tragedies. Published according to the true originall copies' circa 1632 . He exclaimed over the remarkable condition it was in, carefully holding the book for Dick to admire. Bruce's gift was also a book that Alfred had discovered during one of his yearly pilgrimages back to London, an 1890 first edition of Arthur Conan Doyle's second Sherlock Holmes novel, 'The Sign of Four' in its original cloth binding.

Dick scrunched his face in confusion. "But those books are _old_ and musty," he exclaimed. "They're not even new!"

"It is because of their rarity that they are so valued," Alfred informed him. "And see if you could survive for so long without becoming, at least a little bit, musty."

Bruce grinned at the boy's skepticism. "I tried to find the very first printing of the Bard's work, but alas none were for sale. There are only three copies of these, Dick, and they are worth several millions of dollars each."

Dick blinked, astonished. "For a _**book**_?"

"I could hardly expect you to purchase something so expensive and dear as that for me," Alfred exclaimed. "Someday, however, Master Richard, you will learn to appreciate The Bard yourself."

The more fancily-wrapped presents had come from Alfred and Bruce and included a snowsuit suitable for serious outdoor winter sports as well as a remote-controlled all-terrain vehicle, and baseball and glove for him and Bruce to toss around once the snow had all gone away.

"Oh, we aren't quite finished yet," Bruce told him. "There is more."

All that was left was a very large box that sat all the way in the back. Bruce slid it out and sat it in front of Dick. He gaped at the size of it.

"You got me too many things," he complained.

"I guarantee you will want this one, Dickie," Bruce assured him. "Go ahead and open it."

Dick sighed but he admitted to being curious. Bruce looked a little nervous and that made Dick a little nervous, too. He hated tearing the pretty paper so he peeled the tape free carefully. Maybe Alfred could use it again next year.

Eventually he tugged the top off of the box and pulled free the tissue paper. He stared at the contents first with confusion and then almost immediately with recognition. Dick's mouth dropped open in awe as he pulled the edge of a handmade quilt free from its container. With shaking hands, Dick held it to his face and just breathed.

He breath hitched as the tears returned in force. He looked up at Bruce with a complete sense of wonder.

"It still _smells_ like them," he choked out in a hoarse whisper.

"As much as I want to, I cannot give them back to you," Bruce said, his own voice was gruff. "But I thought that maybe you'd accept the next best thing."

Dick pulled the quilt out of the box and wrapped it around his body, hugging himself in the soft, well-worn, well-loved material. He held the blanket up to his nose again, inhaling deeply.

" _Thank you_ ," he cried. "Thank you, Bruce! Thank you!"

"You're welcome, Dickie," Bruce told him. "You're welcome."

* * *

Bruce watched the boy as memories of the days following Bruce's own parents' murder rolled over him. When Alfred had asked him to remember what had given him comfort during those first few horrible days, Bruce recalled lying on his parents' bed, pulling their blankets over his body and burying his face in their pillows. When he had squeezed his eyes tight and focused hard, it had almost felt as though they were still there, hugging him one last time.

Bruce glanced up at the fresh handkerchief in Alfred's hand. That was right, he had given his to Dick a while ago. At the time, the boy had needed it more than him. Bruce took the carefully pressed square with gratitude, wiping dampness from his own face. He didn't think he would ever be able to top this Christmas if he lived to be a hundred years old. It was not very likely, considering his penchant for vigilantism, but a fact all the same.

Alfred squeezed his shoulder. "Very good, Master Bruce. You did very well, indeed."

* * *

 **REACTIONS? What did you think? Was Bruce inspired or what? (And yes, I cried like a baby at the bottom of this. Did you?)**

 **One more chapter to go . . . It is already written, finished, kaput! But I think I will wait to put it up either Tuesday or Wednesday. Won't be long, promise. You know how bad I am about waiting.**

 *** Bat-Wolf reference.**


	4. Come Fly With Me

**Warning: Some Language . . .**

* * *

Later that afternoon, Bruce came looking for Dick. He found the boy where he expected him to be, in his room still wrapped in his parents' quilt. The tears had finally stopped and the boy had slept for a short time but now it was time to get up. He'd never be able to sleep tonight if he slept the day away.

"Dick? Wake up," Bruce called to him. "Come on, lazy bones. Time to get up."

It took a few minutes to get the boy up and running. Bruce reassured him that the quilt would remain on his bed until he, himself, decided to take it off. Promises made, Dick scrambled to get dressed in workout clothes. The boy was running to keep up with Bruce's long stride in no time.

He was smiling again, Bruce noted, literally glowing and the day wasn't done yet. He hoped it remained when he showed him this next gift. Getting the tree up was only part of what he and Alfred had done last night. Bruce's determination to give Dick as much of his parents back to him as possible wouldn't have been complete without this, however.

Dick stumbled to a halt two steps into the gym.

"Um, Bruce, what happened to all the equipment?" Dick asked as he took in the changed positions of the normal gym equipment. But the boy saw the reason behind it even before he finished asking his question. "Wait! I-Is that a _net_?"

Dick eyes automatically slid upward toward the fifty-foot ceiling. The bars hung lower than those that he and his parents had used in the circus, but the thirty-feet that they dangled, secured from the uppermost structures, was nothing to scoff at. This had taken far longer to set up for all that it contained as many pieces as those in the circus because Dick's safety was first and foremost in their minds. In fact, they had taken advantage of the boy's impromptu nap to triple check the wires, the bolts for which were secured into permanent metal supports.

"Y-You got a trapeze?" Dick gasped. "How? I was in here yesterday afternoon?"

"I'll admit that Santa and his reindeer were instrumental in getting up there," Bruce teased. "Do you like it?" he then asked nervously. "If it is too soon, you don't' have to go up but I thought that maybe you would like the opportunity to fly again."

But he was talking to air. Dick was already across the gym in seconds and climbing the secure metal rungs to one of the platforms. It would feel even more like flying as the entire far wall was almost completely glass and there were several skylights throughout the ceiling, giving the gym the feel of being outdoors. It was a huge change from the gym in the cave that was dark and a bit claustrophobic despite the immensity of the caverns below. But _that_ gym was all business while this one was light, airy, and especially now, made as much for fun as it was for a workout.

"How did he take it?" Alfred asked from Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce's lips lifted in amusement. "What do you think?" Bruce indicated the child's progress. "He was so excited, he didn't give me a second glance before he took off."

"I'll admit that this particular gift gave me some pause," Alfred told him.

"That is why there is a net, Alfred, although he apparently had a routine he performed with his parents without it," Bruce said.

"It wasn't the net I was speaking of, although in light of his parents' fall, I am most grateful for its inclusion."

Bruce looked at him. "I would never let him up there without it. Haley assured me that the Graysons always practiced with a net," Bruce said. "I remember hearing all the rumors of the boy's skills, but his parents fell before the audience had the opportunity to see him in action."

"Well, I think you are going to get a glimpse of that right now," Alfred nodded to the bars high above them.

The two men made their way closer as Dick stood on the platform with a bar in hand. He didn't move but looked thoughtful, and Bruce wondered if he was thinking about what routine he would do when it suddenly dawned on him.

"Dick?" Bruce called up to him. "Do you need a catcher, chum?"

Dick glanced down at his audience and shook his head but he remained stationary, making no move to leap out into the air.

Bruce frowned. The child had no fear of heights. ***** He had seen the boy moving through the construction site with confidence and what had appeared to be delight just a week ago, despite the fact that he was being pursued at the time. The beams that he had run across then had even been higher than the trapeze and notably lacking any sort of safety net.

No, fear of heights wasn't the problem . . . Bruce shook his head. His and Alfred's earlier concern that Dick might feel afraid of getting back into the air after watching his parents fall from the trapeze returned to him in force.

"What is he waiting for?" the butler asked. It would occur to the older man soon enough. They had expected this, after all.

"He's afraid, Alfred," Bruce murmured. "He's afraid to fly!"

Bruce made his way over to the ladder and started climbing with the intention of joining Dick on the platform. Pulling himself up, he stood next to the boy and found that, what hadn't been easy to see from below, was now painfully obvious. Dick was pale and sweating. His pupils were dilated and his breathing rapid. Despite his liberal use of the chalk provided, Dick's hands were damp. Bruce took the bar from his grasp and let it swing free.

"It's okay," he told the boy softly. "There is no rush here, Dick. No one expects you to do this if you aren't ready for it."

Bruce left the implication hanging there that the boy _would_ be ready at some point in the future, however. After what he had witnessed, Dick would need to get back on the proverbial horse at some point in time or he would never fly again. Bruce knew without saying that neither the boy nor his parents would want Dick to be grounded for the rest of his life. Haley had mentioned to Bruce before he had left that Dick had been born to fly. But it didn't _have_ to be today . . .

"Dick. You don't need to do this today," Bruce felt compelled to repeat.

Dick looked up at him and Bruce cursed silently at himself. Those damned tears had returned.

"Why can't I do it?" Dick asked him with a wobbly voice. "I don't understand."

"After what you saw that night . . ." Bruce said softly.

"B-But **_I_** wasn't the one who fell," Dick cried out. "My parents took me out on the traps when I was only a few days old! Why should I be . . . afraid?" He whispered the last word.

"You may not have been the one to fall, Dick, but you lost your world that night," Bruce explained. "It is entirely normal for you to feel some trepidation about going back on them. It's okay to be afraid."

Dick frowned. "No," he gritted out. "It's not."

He turned and grabbed the hooked pole behind him, using it to snag the trapeze bar and drag it back to him. Dick stood there once again as he did just minutes ago, contemplating that first leap. There was a fine tremble to his limbs as his breathing hitched up a notch. He made no attempt to step off the platform.

Bruce sighed, kneeling beside the boy. "You don't _have_ to do this _now_. Let's go down and have some of Alfred's hot cocoa. You can try again tomorrow."

Dick stared at the open air in front of him. "No. I _want_ to do this," he said through clenched teeth. "I _have_ to. They'd expect it of me."

"From the stories I heard recently of your parents, I doubt they would force you to do something that upset you this much."

Dick shook his head, quick and abruptly. "No. No, Dad would say you have to get right back up there after a fall," his voice cracking on the word 'fall'. "He -He said if you didn't, you might as well take a job as a prop man . . . or a roustabout because you'd never fly again."

"And that is not a good thing, I take it?" Bruce asked.

Dick looked at him incredulously.

"Right," Bruce nodded, knowingly. "Stupid question. Understand that if you don't feel like doing this today that I'm not going to take it down. It will still be here waiting for you whenever you feel ready to face it again."

Shaking his head, Dick tightened his jaw. "It's already been months! I have to do it now."

"Would it help if I got out there with you?" Bruce offered. "I could act as your catcher, if you like."

Startled by the offer, Dick stared at his guardian. "But you've never . . ."

Bruce held up a hand. "That's not entirely true. I've done this a few times when I was training to become the Batman."

Dick looked at him skeptically. "Enough to know what you're doing?"

 _Ouch_. "Enough that I can act as your catcher," Bruce assured him. "I won't let you fall."

Dick winced. "My dad promised me that, too," he whispered, "but he couldn't even catch himself."

"I know you have no reason to trust me yet but I will always do everything I can to make sure you are safe and happy, Dick," Bruce told him, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder.

He noted the muscle that rippled beneath the skin and reminded himself that Dick was a professional. He had been performing in front of a crowd for nearly two years. From what Haley had told him, Dick's part of the act had been consistently increasing in time and complexity every few months as the boy's natural talent had become more and more obvious. Apparently, John Grayson had predicted Dick's ability as a flyer would quickly outstrip his own. It was a significant declaration when one took into account that John and Mary Grayson had already been considered the world's greatest aerialists at the time of their deaths.

To let Dick's potential die along with his parents would be criminal.

"There's a net," Bruce reminded him. "Let me go out and then, when you're ready, I'll be right there to catch you."

Without waiting, Bruce took the bar and stepped off into space. He built his momentum and in a simple aerial maneuver, he did a somersault on his way to the waiting bar. Pulling from memories and his own bit of experience, Bruce immediately swung his legs over the bar and clapped his hands to indicate he was ready. Dick smiled at him. Perhaps it was enough to give the boy that extra bit of confidence he needed because as the bar swung back in his direction, Dick leapt off the platform and was once more in the air. Bruce watched as Dick picked up momentum using his legs to expertly add height to his swing. Then, Dick let go . . .

Bruce felt his mouth drop open as the boy tucked himself tight and spun with amazing speed . . . one, two, three . . . Four! Four somersaults! The child's hands were slapping his wrists in the next blink and if Bruce hadn't been mistaken, Dick had managed the entire thing with his eyes closed. The boy opened them now and grinned up at him.

Bruce couldn't help but grin back. The child was as astounding as Haley's advertising had implied. Alfred could be heard below them clapping with enthusiasm.

"Going back?" he asked.

"On my mark," Dick told him and, almost magically, the boy knew exactly when to let go. Twisting in mid-air, he caught the bar without any hesitation.

* * *

The next hour was spent high in the air as Dick demonstrated his expertise for them. By dinnertime, Dick was back in form as he laughed and chattered animatedly over the meal. He told stories from his life in the circus and, even those in which his parents factored prominently in, were told with smiles and happy enthusiasm.

The pristine snow they had received could not be ignored entirely and after dinner, Bruce and Dick bundled up and turned on the floodlights in the backyard. Three snowmen and two impromptu snowball fights later, the two laughed and stomped their way back inside to hot cocoa and cookies in the living room, enjoying the beauty of the tree while Dick tried out his remote-controlled Range Rover. They discovered that if Dick stacked the boxes just right, the toy vehicle could climb over them with ease.

Dick was drooping before long, however. Bruce promised they could try out the baseball mitt tomorrow in the ballroom and scooped the boy up amidst his sleepy protests. When they entered Dick's room, they saw that Alfred had remade the bed; his parent's quilt had been spread out over the bed and turned back already. In short order, Dick was changed into a pair of flannel pajamas, his teeth brushed and face washed, and tucked under his quilt. Dick smiled sleepily up at his guardian.

"Thank you, Bruce," he said sincerely. "I didn't think I could ever enjoy Christmas again."

"But . . .?" Bruce asked from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

Dick brought his parents' quilt up to his nose and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like them. He sighed, as close to content as he could come.

"But it was a good day," Dick admitted.

"Good. I'm glad," Bruce said, slipping his hand into the pocket of his robe, "because I have one more thing to give you."

Dick frowned and sat up. "No, Bruce! You've already given me too much. I have everything I could want right now."

Bruce tapped him on the nose. "Not everything. The quilt took a lot of your attention so I thought it would be best if I waited until bedtime to give you this."

The box was small, possibly smaller even that of Reuban or Juanita's gifts. Curious, Dick plucked at the red ribbon and picked at the tape. He pulled the paper away to reveal what looked like a jewelry box about the size of his hand.

"I found these in a secret compartment inside a drawer," Bruce told him. "I thought that you would like to have them."

Dick opened the dark-blue velvet case. Inside were two simple gold rings, one larger than the other. He swallowed as he recognized his parents' wedding bands. They never wore them when they were in the air because the damage it would cause the rings and the possibility of the bands pinching fingers was a danger. Dick remembered that his parents would always tuck them away for safe keeping until after the show.

The rings had been strung onto a gold chain and it was easy to see, even to his eight-year-old eyes, that the chain was a much higher quality that the two slightly-dented, gold rings. He pulled it free of the box and looked up at Bruce.

"They wouldn't fit on your fingers right now and anyway, you wouldn't want to lose them or see them damaged, so I thought that a necklace would help you keep track of them. You can wear them around your neck when you want to keep them close," Bruce explained.

Dick turned the rings over in his hand and looked closely at the familiar words inscribed on the inside of the bands. "Come Fly With Me," and on the other ring it read, "Let's Fly, Let's Fly Away".

"Dad used to sing this song to Mom sometimes," Dick murmured, smiling at the memory. "They would dance together whenever he would sing it." His smile was bright despite the tears that once more fell over his cheeks.

Bruce sighed, wiping the salty drops away with his thumbs. He then ran his hand over Dick's hair. "Are you going to be okay tonight?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Dick assured him as he slid the necklace over his head and tucked the rings beneath his pajama top. Climbing to his knees, Dick hugged Bruce for all he was worth. "Thank you for giving a part of them back to me!"

Bruce's arms snuck around the child's back and, for brief moment, it felt as if his own parents had wrapped their arms around them both.

"Merry Christmas, Dickie," he murmured into the child's hair.

Dick snuggled even closer. "Merry Christmas, Bruce."

And it was . . .

* * *

 **REACTIONS? Well? What do you think? Bittersweet, perhaps, but hopefully a bit more sweet than it was bitter. ;D I've always felt that Bruce had it in him to be a great father . . . Don't worry, though, he'll have plenty of time to make lots of mistakes. Luckily, Dick's an understanding and forgiving child. But you've got to admit, that when he puts his mind to it, Bruce is a good dad.**

 *** Reference to "A Little Help".**


End file.
